Vengeance Is Mine

by Joanne Fluke

  “Just try it. Minnesota Monthly says it’s the ‘in’ drink.”

  Les lifted the glass and took a sip. Then he made a face. “Couldn’t I just have a beer?”

  “Beer is so tacky.” Trish frowned. “That’s not really iced tea, you know. The bartender said it was a mixture of eight different types of liquor.”

  “I believe it.” Les snapped his fingers for the waitress, who was hovering close to their table.

  “I’ll have a Grain Belt. And when you come back, we’ll be ready to order.”

  “Tell me all about your meeting, darling.” Trish laid her hand over his, and Les noticed that she had just had her nails done. They were a half inch longer than they had been this morning.

  “It was a conference at police headquarters with Steve Radke and Margaret Whitworth.” Les lowered his voice. “About Ray Perini’s murder.”

  “Well, I certainly hope the police department does its job. This sort of thing isn’t good for your career. The only time the Minneapolis stations carry news from St. Cloud is when something bad happens.”

  “I know.” Les sighed deeply. He thought of what would happen if Ray’s murder received statewide publicity. St. Cloud would get the reputation for being a dangerous place to live. Having the state reformatory on the outskirts of the city was bad enough even though it was St. Cloud’s main tourist attraction. The granite wall that surrounded the reformatory had been built in the nineteenth century. The prisoners had quarried the rock themselves. It was the second longest continuous granite wall in the world. If you couldn’t afford to go to the Great Wall of China, you could always drive to St. Cloud to look at the prison.

  “Well?” Trish leaned forward, and the fabric of her dress strained across her breasts. For a moment Les lost complete track of the conversation. Trish had a fine set of knockers. Of course, she was gaining a bit of weight around her hips, but she was still a very attractive woman.

  “Oh, yeah. The meeting.” Les searched around for something he could tell Trish. “We were just trying to figure out how to get ahold of Barney Schultz, that’s all. Well, I’d better look at the menu. Our waitress should be back any minute.”

  Les studied the menu even though he could recite it from memory. He had lunch at the Sunwood at least twice a week. If he thought about Ray Perini much longer, he’d lose his appetite.

  “I think I’ll have the beef dip platter. With au jus.”

  “Les, ‘with au jus’ is redundant. I told you that last time.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I get the distinct impression there’s something you’re not telling me, Les.” Trish gave him a stern look. “Every time I ask about that meeting, you change the subject.”

  The waitress rushed up to their table with Les’s beer. “I’m really sorry it took so long. Sixty people for the optical workers’ convention checked in this morning. It looks like they’re all in the bar.”

  “No problem”—Les sneaked a quick glance at her name tag—“Barb. You’re a student at the college, right?”

  “You remember me?” The waitress grinned from ear to ear. “I met you only once, and that was a year ago at the campus rally. I’m a sophomore now. I’ll be old enough to vote for you in the next election.”

  “Just don’t change your mind before October, Barb. I need the college vote, especially from pretty coeds like you.”

  The waitress blushed and giggled slightly. “Would you care to order now, Mrs. Hollenkamp?”

  “I’ll have a small chef salad, no dressing. And black coffee later. Dieting is such a bore.”

  “But you don’t have to diet, Mrs. Hollenkamp. You look just fabulous.”

  “That’s very sweet, Barb. You’ve made my whole day.”

  Les grinned. He’d be hard put to decide which woman was more insincere.

  “I’ll have the beef dip with . . . uh . . . that’s all. Just the beef dip. Oh, and when you bring Mrs. Hollenkamp’s coffee, bring me a cup too.”

  The smile stayed on Trish’s face until the waitress left. “Now, Les, what about that meeting?”

  Les searched for something to say. He didn’t want to admit he’d practically lost his cookies over the autopsy report. Suddenly he had an inspiration. He reached out and took Trish’s hand.

  “I was saving this for a surprise, kitten, but I just can’t keep it from you any longer. Margaret Whitworth asked me to appear on her interview program this Sunday.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Trish squeezed his hand. “It’s just the sort of exposure you need. Wear your gray pinstripe. I’ll pick up a light blue dress shirt at Metzroth’s. White’s too hot for the camera.”

  Trish took a sip of her Perrier and blotted her lips with her napkin. “I’d better talk to Jane Kedrowski—she’s the secretary at the station—and find out Mrs. Whitworth’s views on the issues. Then you won’t be in for any nasty surprises on the show. You don’t mind if I run out and call Janie right now, do you, dear? It’ll take only a second to set up a lunch with her.”

  Les grinned as Trish made her exit, pausing at a couple of tables for a quick smile and hello. Mrs. Whitworth had booked him for a taping more than three days ago, but he had held the news in reserve for exactly this kind of situation. Now Trish would stay off his back, and he might be able to enjoy his lunch.

  The wind was whipping down the mall in gusts, and Margaret turned up the collar of her fur coat as she hurried past the Loose Tie Saloon and rounded the corner. She probably should have taken the Continental, but she hated to drive downtown, especially since the City Council had voted to make the Ring Road around the mall a two-way street again. The looping road, encircling the three central blocks of downtown St. Cloud, had been converted into a one-way street when the mall was built ten years ago. There had been a series of predictable fender benders for the first few years. Now that motorists had finally adjusted to the change, the city fathers had reversed themselves. Margaret couldn’t help wondering whether someone had a controlling interest in an auto body shop.

  Margaret decided that Harry Truman had been right about at least one thing as she walked quickly down the mall. Brisk exercise cleared the mind and set the blood racing. By the time she got to the studio, she’d be more than ready to throw some difficult questions at Senator Jim Pehler. He had the reputation of being unflappable, but she’d put him through the paces on her talk show this afternoon.

  Hanging plants in baskets decorated the plate-glass windows of the Mexican Village restaurant. Margaret glanced in as she passed by. It was certainly crowded for lunch today. Or was it dinner? After more than thirty years in St. Cloud Margaret still wasn’t comfortable with the names of meals. Breakfast was breakfast—no trouble about that. But lunch was called dinner. Noon dinner. And dinner was supper. Whenever she entertained, Margaret made a point of inviting her guests for seven o’clock dinner or one o’clock lunch, just to avoid any possible confusion.

  A black-and-white police car was double-parked on Sixth Avenue in front of the Northwestern Bell building. A red MG with California plates was getting a parking ticket. The young officer reminded her of Steve Radke. Today’s meeting had confirmed her hunch about him. Margaret liked young men who had the balls to take charge of a situation. And Steve was good-looking to boot. For a moment Margaret wished she were thirty years younger, and the thought made her laugh right out loud. That silly romance novel Jane had left in the office had given her ideas.

  Usually Margaret didn’t have time to read fiction, but she’d been curious when she saw the cover. Desiree’s Desire claimed to be the story of “desperate love, bitter obsession, and heartbreaking delusion.” Margaret had taken it home with her on a whim and spent the entire night reading. Nothing in her life with Howard had prepared Margaret for the torrid scenes of passion between Desiree and her lovers. Either the world had changed since she was a bride or Howard hadn’t known much about women. Now Howard was dead, and she was too old to research the subject. Perhaps if she were just a bit younge
r . . .

  “Hello, Mrs. Whitworth.” Elaine Krupmeier rushed out of Granite City Bridal, carrying a large box. “Wasn’t that terrible about poor Ray Perini? I always knew he’d get into trouble with some of his business deals. You’re coming to Mary Beth’s wedding, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll certainly try to make it, Elaine. Right now I’m completely tied up with the cancer drive. If I could find this year’s chairman I’d be free to come to the wedding. I don’t suppose you’d be interested, would you, dear?”

  Margaret came close to laughing out loud as Elaine fumbled for words. She was bright enough to know that it was a trade-off. If Elaine headed the cancer drive, Margaret would attend Mary Beth’s wedding.

  “Oh. Well . . . I’d be delighted to do my part, of course. It’s an honor to be chairman of such an important drive. And we can count on you for the wedding?”

  Elaine looked anxious. She’d probably told all her relatives that Margaret was attending.

  “I’ll be there with bells on, Elaine.”

  Margaret was smiling as she hurried down the sidewalk. A favor for a favor was the way politics operated, and Margaret had learned to be a superb politician. A wedding for the cancer drive. Margaret was sure she’d gotten the best of the bargain. She could always sleep through the wedding, but Elaine would have two months of house-to-house canvassing to endure.

  There was a patch of ice on the corner of Seventh Avenue, and Margaret stepped over it cautiously. Waldo’s Pizza Joynt was just up the street, and Margaret’s mouth watered as she thought of a huge manager’s special with garlic, onions, and Italian sausage. Dr. Weston had been firm about avoiding highly spiced foods, but Margaret was convinced he was a closet sadist. Dr. Weston seemed to delight in curtailing the little pleasures that made her life worthwhile. The first thing to go had been her imported cigarettes. Next was the unblended Scotch she sipped in the evenings. Now he insisted that she eat nothing but bland, tasteless food. Margaret knew plenty of Italians who lived to ripe old ages. And they didn’t have to give up garlic and onions to do it.

  Three local lawyers dressed in traditional suits and topcoats were hurrying up the steps to the south entrance of the Stearns County Courthouse. The huge building had been built in 1922 out of native granite. It sat on Courthouse Square, one block north of the mall. The entrance was flanked by 36-foot-high granite pillars, and the dome rose 109 feet above street level. It was one of Margaret’s favorite places. There was a feeling of permanence in its polished rock floors and huge vaulted ceilings. Each side had its own entrance, and almost everyone who walked to work downtown ducked through the courthouse to warm up on cold winter mornings. Margaret liked to think they got a dose of history at the same time.

  Margaret glanced up at the clock under the huge yellow dome and checked the time against her watch. Les Hollenkamp’s drive to repair the clock had been successful. There was a public outcry when people woke up on September 10 and found the giant hands frozen at seventeen minutes past five. Les had formed a committee immediately. Everyone in town set his watch by the courthouse clock. Les called Margaret and asked her to donate airtime for his fund-raiser. Of course, Margaret had helped, but she’d given Les some anxious moments when she said she thought the clock was fine just the way it was. Even broken, it was right at least twice a day, and that was a better record than some of the county judges could claim.

  Margaret’s television studio was two doors down, on the south side of St. Germain. She pulled open the heavy glass door and stepped inside.

  “I’m glad you’re back, Mrs. Whitworth.” Carl Hunstiger, the security man, greeted her with a smile. “Janie needs you in the office right away.”

  Margaret took a shortcut through Studio 2, stepping carefully over the heavy black electrical cables. She could hear the sound of Jane’s rapid-fire typing in the office. Jane could type ninety words a minute on her new IBM Selectric, and she never made a mistake. She’d said it was silly for Margaret to hang on to the ancient Remington manual in her private office, but that was before the power shortage last summer.

  “I’m really glad to see you.” Jane finished typing with a burst of speed and whipped the paper out of the machine. “Could you sign this right away? It’s an authorization for an emergency crew at the booster station. Tim Murphy called right after you left. He said the storm last night did all sorts of damage.”

  “Next?” Margaret signed her name with a flourish.

  “Trish Hollenkamp called and asked me to lunch. I told her I’d check my schedule and give her a call back. She probably wants to pump me for information so Les won’t say the wrong thing on your show.”

  Margaret grinned. “Hold out for D.B. Searle’s, and order the most expensive thing on the menu. Then tell her Les should come out in favor of WinterGame. Talking to Trish is a lot cheaper than running through a rehearsal with Les. Next?”

  “There’re a bunch of other messages, but I can handle those. Jim Pehler’s waiting for you in the green room.”

  “Thanks, Jane.” Margaret shrugged out of her coat and ran her fingers through her short gray hair. “Why don’t you order us a large Waldo’s combo with extra garlic and cheese?”

  “But, Mrs. Whitworth, didn’t Dr. Weston say—”

  “He did.” Margaret nodded. “But after the morning I’ve had, if that pizza takes a month off my life, it’s a blessing.”

  Bishop Donahue gave Sister Cecelia an approving nod as she opened the door of the small chapel. She was right. It was their duty to pray for Ray Perini’s sinful soul.

  “Thank you, Sister.” Bishop Donahue walked to the front of the chapel and knelt at the prayer rail, waiting for Sister Cecelia to join him. After a long moment of silent prayer he raised his head. The huge silver crucifix over the altar glowed in the dim light from the electric candles. The power of God surrounded and protected them. There were no doubts in Bishop Donahue’s mind. He had made the only possible move, under the circumstances. He had attacked to capture his opponent’s Black Pawn. Now he must pray for the wisdom to recognize his next move.

  The chapel was so still, he could hear the sound of Sister Cecelia’s soft breathing beside him. Bishop Donahue reached out and made the sign of the cross over her bowed head. He was very grateful that he had taken the risk and enlisted Sister Cecelia’s aid. He never could have destroyed Ray Perini without her.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Steve?” Carol Berg opened the door and poked her head in. “Michele Layton’s on line three, the telephone company said they’d be here in an hour to fix the intercom, and I’m running across to Dan Marsh for a hamburger. Do you want me to bring back something for you?”

  Steve grinned. Sometimes he called Carol Machine-Gun Mama because she rattled off things so fast. She said it was because she had six kids and she had to talk fast in the morning or they’d never get ready for school on time.

  “Could you bring me a ham salad on wheat and an order of fries? No hurry, Carol. Take your time for a change. And will you ask Michele to hold for just a second? I’ll be right with her.”

  Steve closed the folder on his desk and took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure what it was about Michele, but she had a knack for throwing him off-balance. Maybe it was the fact that she had an irreverent sense of humor. Or that she didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by him, even when he was doing his tough cop routine.

  Physically Michele was the total opposite of his ex-wife. Diane had been the short, blond cheerleader type, cuddly and rounded in all the right places. When Steve held his arm straight out to the side, Diane could walk under it without disturbing her fluffy hairdo. Michele was tall, over six feet in heels, and she had long shining black hair. Her eyes were the deepest blue Steve had ever seen.

  The first time he met Michele, she was walking out of D.B. Searle’s, the closest thing to a classy restaurant in downtown St. Cloud, with Carol Berg and two other women. She had just come in from Texas as the new director of the Pro Choice Clinic. Naturally Carol h
ad introduced them.

  Steve picked up the phone. “Michele? Sorry to keep you on hold, but things are pretty stacked up here.”

  “That’s all right, Steve.” Michele’s voice had a hollow echo, and Steve knew she was using the speakerphone in her office. “I just called to remind you of the WinterGame meeting tonight. Seven o’clock at Perkins?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  There was a moment of silence. Steve really wanted to keep her on the line, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “Well . . . I’ll let you get back to work, then.” Michele sounded very professional and businesslike. “See you tonight.”

  Steve hung up the phone and sighed. He’d done it again. This was the fourth time he’d missed an opportunity to ask Michele out for dinner. It would have been easy to suggest that they meet at Perkins early, before the meeting. Of course, Michele was really busy with WinterGame right now. She might have turned him down. He could always ask her later, after WinterGame was over.

  Who was he kidding? Steve knew he was making excuses to avoid a possible rejection. Somehow he’d lost his nerve with women when Diane left him. He’d spent the first few weeks rattling around in the empty apartment on Lake Street, trying to figure out ways to get Diane back. Of course, nothing had worked. Then, a week after he was served with papers, Steve’s partner had dragged him along to a therapy group for divorced cops. Steve had known it was a waste of time after the first session. The guys in the group just wanted an audience so they could bitch about their ex-wives.

  Steve had known that bad-mouthing Diane wouldn’t make him feel any better. It wasn’t her fault. Diane had been only twenty when they’d married, and her family had beaucoup bucks. It was tough to make it on a cop’s salary, and Diane wasn’t used to hardships. Steve had been putting in all the overtime he could get so they could save for a house. He couldn’t really blame her for hating their tiny rented apartment, but he’d been firm about not accepting any money from her family.